


The Sun Came Up and I Can't Believe You're Over Me

by roliver4



Series: "Maybe You Don't Write Enough..." [7]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, F/F, Fire, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Short One Shot, lexa and anya best friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 15:54:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5934147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roliver4/pseuds/roliver4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa is not handling her break up well and Anya is tired of dealing with her shit so they decide to burn all of Costia's stuff... then she meets Clarke. </p><p>Seriously, do you actually need to read more?</p><p>OR Lexa smokes too many cigarettes (because aesthetic) and she and Anya have a snark-fest on the rooftop.</p><p>Also, why do I have an affinity for making Costia an asshole?</p><p>Bebe Rexha "PRAY" lyrics included because it came on Pandora and I got really into it in this starbucks</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun Came Up and I Can't Believe You're Over Me

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted and asked to write something that included a lighter, vodka, an elevator, pajamas, a bouquet of flowers
> 
> Weirdest prompt ever.
> 
> add me on tumblr and let's chat: shaneycakes-1131.tumblr.com
> 
> i follow back!

I didn’t exactly know what to expect when Anya texted me to meet her at the elevator in 30 minutes. Recently, her texts consisted mainly of reminders to take my medication and to eat. She knew that I wasn’t going to do it on my own, but that’s how grieving worked with me. She’d been through this before-- in fact, for the last three years, she’s done this almost every week. It’s been that kind of relationship-- Costia and mine, but this text was different. Not only was she ordering me from the house, but the way that it sat in my inbox, no ellipses to indicate an oncoming explanation, no reasoning, just an order.

Fine. I’d play along. It’s not like it was going to matter anyway. When all was said and done, she’d leave on the third floor and I’d continue to the fifth and we’d both go into our own apartments to live our own lives just as we were before her frail attempt to drag me from my depression. This is how it had worked forever now. She’d unlock her door, throw her keys into the jar against the wall to her left, close the door behind her, pulling the chain lock across the wooden slab, remove her jacket, and throw herself onto the couch, lighting a cigarette and diving back into whatever book she was reading this week. Me, I’d walk through my unlocked door (just in case Costia decided to come home), remove my jacket, slam the door shut behind me, toss my keys, jacket, and wallet onto the floor to my right, and throw myself onto the couch with eyes up to the ceiling and I’d wait. We had both gotten good at our scripts.

Stepping into the hallway, I swallowed deeply, cramming my hands into my busy pockets and feeling around until my fingertips touched the metal spark wheel, spinning it in reverse through the receipts, scrap paper, and gum wrappers that filled my pockets. Producing the device, I withdrew a cigarette from the box in the other jacket pocket, sliding the filter and tipping paper between my teeth before lighting it. The minor explosion that was created before my face produced a flame, the warm heat radiating from the flickering blue and orange blaze in my fingers danced across the tip of my nose as I inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke fill my lungs, relaxing the anxiety that had taken permanent residence in my chest. Exhaling slowly, I watched the grey smoke fill the air around me, dancing in waves through the atmosphere before I blew out the air in my lungs, forcing the grey fog away.

“You can’t smoke in here,” the old woman from down the hall argued, her laundry balanced on her hip as she struggled with her keys. She slid the key into the lock, turning to the right before turning to face me. Her skin was stretched thinly across her cheekbones, the grey tint of my surroundings taking its own hue in her pupils.

Or maybe that was just me. Everything is grey.

“Fight me,” I argue, inhaling and exhaling quickly out of spite. I barely even tasted the tobacco and she knew this as the woman shook her head, mumbling under her breath before nudging past me and making her way to the laundry room. Sliding the cigarette back between my teeth, I inhaled again deeply, holding the smoke deep within me before breathing out again.

As I finished my cigarette, the elevator dinged, the metal doors screeching open to my friend, her amber eyes smiling at me as she tossed me a pair of gloves with one hand and a plastic bottle of marshmallow vodka in the other. “Gear up asshole, we’re going to the roof.” Her words were deep and bold, just like that stupid fucking text.

“Not my style,” I protested as I tossed the bottle back, sliding the fingerless gloves over my hands.” I’m not a bottom shelf kind of gal, even now.” My hands found another cigarette, moving the death stick to my lips while lighting it again and inhaling, the red tip illuminating the shady darkness around me.

It’s not like I’d really know that the burning end was red or that the flame that sparked from the end of my lighter was blue and orange or that Anya’s eyes were the same color brown as the leaves just before they fall from the trees in autumn. Like I said, everything was grey. These were all distant memories of times when I didn’t always ache and everything didn’t always suck. Now, the shades of grey simply bled together, producing the most highly mastered black and white film, the soundtrack echoing the saddest story ever told.

To be honest, I probably wouldn’t know if color even began returning. I mean, I’m so love drunk stupid off these memories, begging god to have mercy on my poor broken soul. The bastard hasn’t done much for me yet, so I figured he’d at least find it in him to make it hurt less when the sun came up illuminating the grey earth and she was over me. I mean, that’s when it all began-- waking up to Costia sitting up in bed staring at the blank wall of our bed room. “Do you know who you are?” she asked me and I laughed, reciting a list of things that I did-- I’m a teacher, a reader, a lover, a writer. That’s who I am... but apparently that wasn’t enough and I had already wasted all of my sins before that conversation even began because by the end of the night I was sitting in a half-empty apartment with the words “I’m not sure who I even am anymore,” lingering in the air and the broken realization that I was already hung over her to drown out my sorrow. That’s when the grey began-- with that next sunrise.

“It’s not to drink, fucker,” my friend laughed, tossing the bottle back again. “It’s to burn. Grab the box.”

I didn’t want to grab the box. Fuck, I wanted to do anything but grab the box, but evasion wasn’t an option. Anya had already grabbed my arm and was pulling me into my apartment, the door swinging wide behind us. It was in the corner of my living room-- it had been for weeks. Anya made me pack up everything that reminded me of the bitch that broke my heart-- letters that I had written, cards that she had given me, a pair of pajama pants that I had stolen from her drawer before she managed to pack them away. The list continued, but somehow, all traces of 3 years of a relationship managed to fit into one single brown, cardboard box. Again, I’m just guessing that it was brown... I mean, it was still grey.

“Bring that box. Let’s go.”

Anya wasn’t one for pleasantries- not these days at least. I mean, we had always been friends. In fact, she was probably my first friend. She was probably my only friend. When I moved to Boston eight years ago, I knew no one and I was totally fine with this. But when I drunkenly stumbled into apartment 302 instead of 502 and took a seat on the couch next to the brunette holding a copy of Fahrenheit 451, I knew that my life was going to change. There was still color at that time and I watched as her fingers of her right hand traced the black letters while her left gripped tightly to the red and blue cover. “You’re in my house,” I drunkenly slurred, my head almost too heavy to hold up right.

“Nope,” she said with absolute surety, unwavering and with no fear. “This is my place.”

That’s all it took. I was hers, hook line and sinker. From then on out, I had the best friend I could have asked for and a number one who called me on my bullshit.

Which is what she was doing now.

“Come on,” Anya urged me forward, pushing my back out of the door and closing it behind me. She pushed with a thin hand on the small of my back, her finger tips digging through my jacket as I slowed closer to the elevator.

“Where are we taking this?” I asked, knowing the answer already. She had basically told me: the roof… it’s to burn. I knew exactly what her game was, but I hoped I was wrong. I hoped I was right. I balanced the cardboard box on one arm as I reached out to touch the button, the little red arrow illuminating upward, its grey light giving just enough tint to remind me that I’m not colorblind. Just when I think I’ve started to forget her, something reminds me.

“Just go,” Anya laughs as the metal doors screech open, the cold and dark elevator car welcoming us with the aroma of asbestos and piss. We really did pick a shithole to live in, but I guess that’s what you get when you follow your dreams of becoming a teacher with no back up plan or savings fund. Reaching a hand out, she taps the 9 button, the top floor illuminating before she reaches out a hand to take the bottle that was balancing precariously through my fingers.

Snorting a small laugh, I shifted my weight to my right leg, allowing the railing on the inside of the elevator car to take the weight of the box. “It’s about time you helped carry something,” I joked, pulling my third cigarette from the box in my pocket. Jesus Christ, I smoke too much these days. Sliding it into my mouth, I lit it quickly at took a drag before my friend grabbed it, stealing the nicotine into her lungs with a quick smile back.

“Nah, I’m just getting my drink on,” she responded, twisting the lid off of the vodka, taking a swig with my cigarette between her two fingers. “I mean, we can’t waste all of it on burning every memory of that bitch.” She didn’t even cringe when the clear liquid hit her lips. No, instead she smiled, lifting the bottle from her lips and running her tongue across them. “Here,” she offered, lifting the bottle to me.

I took my drink ungracefully; choking back slightly once she pulled the bottle from me. “What the fuck is that?” I groaned as the elevator stopped, the metal doors screaming their anthem song as they grinded open. Turning out to the right, she made her way to the small door at the end of the hallway and I followed, listening as she laughed at me.

Let me tell you about that stupid marshmallow vodka. It tastes like a marshmallow that has been left out in the open for about ten years and then treated with pesticides. The chemical overload tries to mask the taste of vodka, but it does about as good of a job as a ton of ketchup does to drown out the taste of a burnt hamburger that has been sitting on Satan’s stovetop for fifteen months. I’m not even exaggerating when I tell you that it is possibly the worst thing that has ever hit my lips…

Except for her.

“I told you not for drinking,” Anya laughed, kicking open the door to roof, the cold air instantly blowing through the small hallway around us. It bounced back and forth, piercing deeply into my best through my open jacket and it wasn’t until I got outside that I felt its full wrath.

But even then, the burn was nothing. I was used to pain in my chest. Everything was a dull, grey, aching pain.

Sitting the box down next to Anya’s feet, I watched as she dumped the clear, putrid liquid cross the box, lifting each flap to soak every inch of its contents. She carefully squeezed the bottle until all that was left was about a shot and a half in the bottom before she offered it to me. With a raise of my hand, I ushered the death juice way, still tasting its bitter jolt in the back of my throat.

Instead, I pulled another cigarette from my pocket, noticing that Anya had basically burnt mine bare. The stick was warm against my lips while I inhaled the smoke, feeling it in my mouth like the air in the hall-- like the pain in my chest.

“Alright homo,” my friend laughed, pulling a matchbox from her pocket. “You’re up.” Sighing, my eyes begged for her to reconsider but she refused, shoving the box closer to me while she shook her head. “Don’t chicken shit out on me now,” she says, taking a single match from the opened box and presenting both to me. “You gotta do it.”

When the box finally went up in flames, seven matches, half of a newspaper, and a burning cigarette box later, I watched as every last memory of Costia went with it, turning to ash and grey smoke in front of me-- an accurate display of our relationship if I had ever seen one.

“So, you got any interests?” Anya asks, downing the single shot that she’s been cradling in the bottle for at least ten minutes now as we curl our legs underneath us, the cold concrete below our asses contrasting against the warm fire in front of us. She kicked some brown leaves into the pile, watching as they burnt with the memories of my ex. Each leaf exploded into a micro-crackle, a bomb shattering the silence around up with a soft pop and firework detonation inside of the red and orange blaze.

Shaking my head as my friend tossed the plastic handle behind her, I wondered how many other sad and pitiful heartbroken lovers did this same exact tango. The rooftop was littered with papers and bottles, cigarette packages adding the blue and silver accents to the painting of depression. With each crackle of the fire, I noticed another color around me, filling the void while my pain burned away between us. “Nah,” I finally spoke as the flame began to die down, the flannel pajamas in the bottom of the box melting away and suffocating the orange glow that still remained.

“I’m fine with that,” she laughed, pushing her brown hair from her face as she stood, producing her own box of cigarettes from her pocket. “I don’t want to go burning another bitch’s shit again because she broke my best friend’s heart.”

Laughing as I took the box from her hand, pulling a cigarette to my lips and making some joke about her holding out of me while I lit both of our death sticks, I  shook my head, thanking whatever the fuck kind of god that decided to destroy my life for making me drunkenly stumble into Anya’s apartment . I lead the way into the icy hallway, pushing the button and watching the red glow of the light, blinking against its brightness.

When did color start returning to the world?

As the elevator opens of the fifth floor, I  punched Anya in the arm, turning to face her while I  backed out. “We still on for coffee this Sunday?” I  asked my friend, the smile spreading across her dark lips.

“You haven’t gotten coffee with me in weeks,” she responds, her eyes glowing mildly as she nods.

As the doors begin the screech shut, i threw out a quick “Coffee this Sunday,” before they closed, forcing me to turn quickly...

Almost too quickly...

And my body met violently with another, the books  and flowers in their hands falling forcibly to the floor between us. “Oh my god,” the rasp in her voice caused me to seize, a cold tremble running down my spine. Even through my sweater and jacket, I  could feel the chill of her eyes. They were intense and unlike the rest of her clad in her bright colors and loud patterns, they weren’t at all animated. They were cold and chilled, like ice. She stared at me for a moment with those blue eyes contrasting against the pale of her face, peering into my very existence . Most blue was captivating, drawing you in and drowning you in a sea of awe, nipping at every goosebump on your body, but when i looked into her ice-covered irises, I  feel nothing but electricity and burning. It’s not like the burning of the flame that we left just moments before on the rooftop, but like that which is  felt in my glove covered hands, my skin exposed to the chilly air around me. She was a tundra and I was numb in the eternally raging blizzard around her dark pupils. Black isn’t even the word to explain them. It’s darker than that-- like the abundant space of an infinitely expanding universe. It was as if her eyes didn’t capture the light or reflect it like every other pair of sapphire or cobalt eyes that ever stared up at me, but rather her pupils defied light, forcing it away as they glowed against the awkward smile that lined her cheekbones as she stared up at me gently. “I’m so sorry,” she apologizes-- for what I still don’t even know.

“No,” i correct her, reaching down to help her gather her things. When my face got closer to hers i could notice the tear streaked cheeks that hold that forced smile, her deep swallow hiding the sadness that she’s been biting back. “I’m sorry,” my voice cracked as i spoke.

Smooth.

She straightens up as I  met her stance, holding the broken bouquet of flowers that i  gathered off of the floor out to her. She hesitates for a moment before wrapping her soft, thin fingers around them, crazing the top of my hand with hers. “I’m a train wreck. My boyfriend...” There it is... That hesitation again. “My ex just broke up with me by giving me these.”

What the fuck?

“And I don’t know what to do with them.” I took a cigarette from my pocket again, forgetting that I  stole Anya’s box and laughing at the number of cigarette butts that have found their way into my jacket pocket over the course of the last three hours. Honestly, it had to be a nervous habit at this point.

“You could burn them,” i laughed, lighting the cigarette while the smaller girl offered me her hand. I hesitated, joining in the awkward waltz as I  stumbled through the motions, taking the hand that was balancing books and flowers across its arm.

“I’m Clarke,” she says with a small smile as she withdraws her hand. “And that sounds like a great idea.” I  noded as silence took over our conversation for a split second before she lifts herself onto her toes before flattening her stance back down, awkwardly shuffling. “Well,” she begins, taking a step back. “It was nice meeting you.”

I waved her off, returning the comment before walking towards my door.

Then it hits me.

“Hey Clarke,”in began, turning quickly with the still unlit cigarette in my fingers.

The blonde turns back quickly from the door down the hall, her keys in outstretched hands just an inch from the doorknob. “Yeah?”

“I’m Lexa,” i laughed as I  backed towards my door, putting the cigarette to my lips. She doesn’t reply, only nods with another smile and unlocks her door, disappearing behind the wooden slab just as i reached mine.

“You can’t smoke in here,” the old woman from down the hall argued again, this time with more grumble and grit in her voice, irritation building as her laundry balanced on the other hip. She was struggling again with her keys, jingling them a few times in an attempt to untangle them before they fell to the floor beside her.

“Sorry,” i replied softly, jogging over to where she stood and bending over to grab the keys. The cigarette in my hand found its way to my pocket when i lifted the keys to her door, sliding them and unlocking the deadbolt before pushing the door open for her. She awkwardly side-eyed me before a small smile broke through the sneer and a ‘thank you’ fell from her lips. Retreating behind her door, she closed it, leaving me alone in the hallway full of color.

And that’s when I  noticed it for the first time in months-- the hallway full of color.

Taking a deep breath, I  returned to my door, opening it as i removed your coat, hanging it on the hook to the right instead of tossing it on the floor. My keys found the hook beside it and my shoes found the mat beside the door all before my fingers latched the lock, closing Costia out forever.


End file.
